Chapter Two

Mephalus turned and saw the townspeople lined up along the hill’s ridge to the south of the stone fortress. Torches lit the night sky, as their cries of outrage and anger filled the air, a mob bent on retribution. They held swords, pitchforks, sickles, and even bows and arrows as they marched to encircle the one who wished to subjugate them.

Mephalus roared his menacing laughter. “You’re actually going to allow the people of this town to fight your battle for you? You’re even more of a coward than I thought. Have the Warriors gone soft, Kendalais?”

Whistling filled the air as flaming arrows launched from the townspeople, aimed at Mephalus—or rather, in his vicinity. Fire blazed trails of light through the black night, streaking their way toward the bodies that littered the earth around Mephalus’s feet. The arrows pierced the ground, the flames catching the dry earth and the bodies that lay dead on the ground. The flames flickered, sparking fires that engulfed all around the elven Warrior. More arrows sliced the air, igniting even more fires. The fiery rain continued.

Mephalus sent furtive glances around him; flames engulfed the entire area. He screamed at the townspeople, but more fiery arrows headed off every advance he made to escape the fire. He turned to Kendalais. “Is this how your king passes judgment?” he bellowed into the night. “You allow these…humans…to kill one of your kind?”

Kendalais slid his sword into its scabbard before crossing his arms over his chest. He stared down at Mephalus with cold, detached eyes. “You know the Seelie do not interfere in the affairs of humans. You crossed that line, Mephalus, and now the humans have decided to handle it themselves. They are the ones who passed judgment, and we will not interfere.”

“Cowards!” The flames caught everything in their wake, sending up smoke and flames in suffocating heat. Mephalus started to have problems breathing, the heat singeing his mouth and throat. He could no longer see past the flames which grew to reach over his head. More arrows hit the ground around him, one piercing his chest, knocking him backward, the flames setting his hooded cloak on fire. The roaring flames drowned out his anguished cry. More arrows assaulted him, some hitting the ground, others piercing his body. “Kendalais!” His voice, a mere gurgle of boiling blood, faded away.

The pain of the flames seared his flesh, scorched him, and made it unbearable. He gripped the sword, trying to use its magic as a barrier against the agony, trying to hold the inevitable off as long as possible. However, the Warriors inside his sword screamed at him as they united against him to bar his path to the sword’s magic, cheering his death, even though they dreaded being locked inside the sword with him for eternity. The townspeople cheered as his screams filled the night. Yet, all Mephalus could hear was the roar of the flames, the sizzling of the blood on his cheek from where the arrow struck him. He fought to breathe, but only drew in heated air which scorched his lungs, devouring his oxygen. Then everything went black, and he felt himself falling. He never felt himself hit the ground, however.

The pain disappeared. So did the sky and the ground, even the townspeople and those insufferable Sidhe Warriors. He glanced around, and all he saw was darkness. He looked down, but not even his hands or arms were visible.

Then he heard the voices.

You shouldn’t have done it.

Wrong, Warrior. Wrong. You allowed the power to corrupt you.

Another now takes your place.

“Who is this that speaks to me?” Yet, his voice was silent, even though he heard it in his mind. He reached for his lips but felt nothing. Panic seized him.

Only your soul remains. No flesh. No Power.

“I have a voice!” Yet, that wasn’t true. He didn’t have a voice. At least, not one he could hear. Where am I?

You dwell inside the Guardian Sword, Mephalus. You are a part of its magic now.

Mephalus screamed. No! It couldn’t be. He lived. He would conquer the Irish water town, make the people his slaves. He couldn’t be dead. Kendalais!

No, Warrior. Do not blame Kendalais. You brought this calamity upon yourself by surrendering to the pull of the Void. You followed the path of the Unseelie and gave yourself to this punishment.

Mephalus ceased talking. Or thinking. Or whatever it was he was doing inside this new place that was the Guardian Sword. Another—Mobias—had already taken possession of the sword. He could feel the elf’s grip on what should be his sword, could feel the impression his mind was even now making on it, transforming it to fit his own temperament. Mephalus threw his soul at the boundary he assumed was the sword, threw his mind toward Mobias’s mind, trying to usurp the elf’s control.

The other Warriors threw themselves against him, throwing up barriers against Mephalus’s attack. No! You will not do this! Here you are and here you stay! Cease this affront against the Guardian’s Warrior!

Mobias also fought back, using the magic of the Brintohar to erect his own barrier against Mephalus. The ensnared elf could hear Mobias chanting the words of power to protect himself and maintain control. Mephalus ceased his attack, but not until he practically exhausted himself in the attempt. He would break out of this prison, he vowed to himself. He would once again walk the world and finish his conquest of the humans. It was his right, his destiny. He earned it. One day, he would make the Seelie and those smug Sidhe Warriors rue the day they fought against him. And those Irish peasants. They would regret sending him inside the sword. He would make sure of that.

He merely needed to wait, and time was plentiful. He had eternity, after all.